Long Enough to Bloom
by deemn
Summary: Seven days in sunny June. MGTA
1. Day 1

Title: Long Enough To Bloom

Author: kali

Fandom: QOS

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Not mine. Title from "Seven Days in Sunny June" by Jamiroquai

Notes: Idea came from thinking about lyrics: "seven days in sunny June, long enough to bloom." Written some time ago, so I know better than to think this works in any way, but I want to post it anyway.

Summary: Seven days in sunny June.

* * *

**Day 1: June 7th, 1817**

_In which the hero laments the ill-laid plan._

It's an awful day. There's sunshine and fucking _butterflies_ and smiling people. People who would've been dead—okay, so that's an okay thing—and worst of all, a colonel who would've been dead if not for a: a meddling snot-nosed doctor and b: a meddling, uptight, sword-wielding whore of a Queen. Goddamn meddlers. Always meddling like they do.

He squints through the obscenely bright sunlight and weaves his way around the washerwomen at the fountain, around the little boys playing with their red-white-and-blue toy boat. Right now, he just wants to get some sleep—goddamn midnight-to-four and six-to-ten shifts, why the hell couldn't he get someone else to cover for him—and soak in that delicious sort of late afternoon half-light like a tepid bath. And then he wants food, beer, sex, and more sleep.

Yep. That's his plan for the day. Outrageously productive, Captain Grisham is.

_Colonel_ Grisham would've been damn productive. First, he would've gotten rid of these overlapping shifts. Then he would've started drills-or-death, the way things _ought_ to be done around here. Soldiers didn't learn unless they were about to die. That's just the way the brain worked. But goddamn Montoya—

"Peralta!" he barks, rounding the corner to the garrison plaza. He stomps over to the dozing sentry by the well and hoists him up by the jacket, dangles him over the stone lip of the well. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Sleeping, Capitan."

Goddamn _lip_ on these goddamn _lackeys_. "You're an idiot, Peralta. You're on duty, stand at attention and awake!" Peralta makes the mistake of rolling his eyes. This is something Grisham can't understand—when someone has you hanging in mid-air, you're really going to try and piss them off? "And now, you're on duty until midnight. Right here. If you sleep again, you will be on duty until tomorrow at midnight. It'll just keep ramping up until you learn to stay awake, understand?"

Peralta now looks appropriately pissed/chagrined. It's a weird combination on such a round face. Grisham lets him drop to the sand, without warning, and Peralta's knees give out. "Get up," he spits, and turns to stalk into his quarters, slam the door and punch the wall.

No. No use getting angry, not over the idiots he commands, not over the failed plan. It had failed, and now he had to maneuver from whatever lowly place he'd dropped to. Whatever place that was, he's still Captain; no one else can be expected to do the job with any semblance of competence. Not that Marcus is competent, but it's intentional incompetence; the other morons just don't get it.

Sighing heavily, he turns and ambles—slowly, steadily, getting his breathing back under control—to his table, pours himself some water. He drinks about half of it when he notices the folded piece of paper with his name in precise, narrow letters, next to his ink.

He plunks down the tin mug, draws his pistol and spins, does a quick recon of the room. No, no one here. But damn, does he need to invest in a better lock. He uncocks the gun and sets it down on the table, picks up the paper. It's not just paper, it's fine, heavy stationery, light blue, tinged so faintly it looks pure white. The handwriting—on the outside, at least—is feminine, for all its masculine pretense. Too many loops.

Well, that makes "Who is this from?" easy. Now he just has to guess "What'd she say?" There are two options for that. A: You poor baby, coming down sick like that. Want me to love you better? B: You fucking creep. I heard what you did and I hope you rot in hell with Satan.

Given the circumstances, and that she gossiped with both Vera and Doctor Helm on a regular basis, he's willing to go all in on option B.

Ah, Christ. She didn't even bother with an actual greeting, just a terse sort of "Capitan Grisham." He was so fucked.

_Capitan Grisham,_

_I hope this note finds you in better health than you were yesterday. I understand that Doctor Helm managed to recover the medicine; if you are suffering from the same fever that the rest of the town is, please do take care to see him and obtain some of the medicine for yourself._

_I thank you for your company yesterday afternoon and hope for your quick recovery._

_T. Alvarado_

Damn. He didn't get a "Dear" or even a "Sincerely." Or even a full name! This was the official kiss-my-ass-you-jerk.

He's pretty calm; he puts the note down, finishes his water, then scrambles to read the note again. Did she _actually_ mention Helm in the second fucking sentence!? Did she really just slap him in the face like that? "I understand that Doctor Helm…" Son of a bitch probably got the fucking medicine, cured all the fucking people and went straight to fucking gloat to the gorgeous girl who _would_ simper and fuss over his obnoxious English ass.

Goddamn. God_damn_. His life officially _sucks_.

Angry now, infuriated, really, and still exhausted, he strips off his jacket and rummages through his wardrobe for that pair of black pants that sits loose enough for him to really move, to dodge and duck and cross step and _fight_. He struggles out of his uniform pants, and fuck those suspenders, pulls on the fight pants and bursts out his door. "Peralta!"

Peralta is perfectly awake, flirting like a moron with Juliana. He snaps to attention and Juliana rushes away. "Yes, Capitan Grisham, sir!"

"Oh, shut the fuck up. You're off sentry duty."

Peralta hesitates. "What am I on?"

"Arena. Now. You've got five minutes to be ready."

"Fuck."

"Shut up. And go."

Peralta runs off, probably still cursing under his breath. Grisham slowly makes his way into the garrison quarters, weaves his way around the bunks and trunks and comes out to the sand pit of the yard. The Arena is the great equalizer, where Corporal Cruz beats the shit out of his Captain, on occasion, and Captain Grisham beats the shit out of everyone else. Ramirez and Murrieta are wrestling; the off-duty grunts are watching, betting, rooting. "I take winner," he mutters to Cruz, "and Peralta."

Cruz looks up and gives a questioning grunt. Cruz never questions unless absolutely necessary. "Simultaneously."

Cruz shakes his head, grunts again, writes it down. Murrieta spits out a tooth and slams Ramirez into the yard wall. Ramirez flops to the sand, stays down for the five counts. Two grunts drag him out. Grisham steps up.


	2. Day 2

Day 2: June 3rd, 1818

**In which the hero stays out of the rain.**

"Corporal Cruz. You finally join us."

Cruz looks like shit. Grisham winces at the mud dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. "I apologize for the delay, Colonel."

Montoya finally looks up from his papers and actually stops to gape at Cruz. "What happened?" He says it tightly, like he's angry with Cruz for having the audacity to report while unclean.

"North road is washed out. The mud flows like a river. No one can travel that road until the rains have stopped, probably not until the ground dries up again."

Fuck. Cruz probably got caught in a mudslide and still managed to make it back to report as calm as fuck. The kid's incredible.

"And the other roads?"

"I don't know, Colonel. None of the other scouts have reported to me. I don't believe they were supposed to."

Montoya folds his lips, frowns. "Dismissed, Corporal."

"Await further orders downstairs, Cruz," Marcus adds, as quickly as he can spit it out without sounding frantic.

Montoya gives him an odd look but lets it slide. "As far as I know, everyone is gathered in the cantina. Talk to Paredes, then to Padre Romero. Women and children, and of course Don Faustino, in the hotel. Men in the church or the garrison."

"Yes, sir." He salutes crisply—and Montoya gives him the same odd look again—and swivels, marches out the door. Cruz is waiting at the bottom of the interior stairs. "I don't want you to do anything, Nando. Just send me Justo before you go clean up. Then I want you to go the cantina and tell Paredes that you're the man I talked about. Then I want you to get some sleep. You're off duty until further notice. Understand?"

Cruz nods, smiles through the mud streaked on his face. "Thanks, Captain."

"Shut up and move." Cruz guns it. Boy deserves a promotion. Except for the fact that he can kick Marcus's ass with his feet bound and hands chopped off. Can't have that sort of power rising.

But… maybe. He'll talk to Montoya about it.

Ramirez comes running up. "You sent for me, Captain?" His shirt is untucked and his collar has lipstick on it, but he's brighter than most and that's what's needed right now.

"Yep. You and me, Justo, are going to plan a five-point watch. It's mudslide season and we are not about to be caught unawares. How many men do we have?"

"On or off?"

"Total."

"Twenty four."

"How many on?"

"Six."

"You know who?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Let's make it an even twenty. Four shifts, five points, six hours. East, west, south, northwest, northeast. Four men out are Nando and the other three scouts. I'm on last northeast. Take your pick of shifts. We'll reassess shifts this time tomorrow. All clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do it."

Ramirez runs off in the same direction as Cruz and Marcus wipes the rain off his face. Next up: the rich people. This… will be decidedly unpleasant.

He climbs the steps of the cantina patio and ducks into the inner dining room, where Murrieta has gathered all the out-of-towners. There's about ten women, three kids and fifteen men. "Murrieta," he mutters, and Murrieta moves away from the little boy he's speaking to. "Run to the church and ask Padre Romero whether he can house fifteen men tonight. Then run back here and tell me right away."

Murrieta nods and heads out immediately. Marcus moves over to Senor Paredes, standing by the door to the kitchen and looking at the seated people warily. "Senor," he mumbles by way of greeting.

Paredes grunts. "I hope you have good news for me, Captain."

He grimaces. "A big fat military paycheck?"

Paredes swears. "All of them?"

"Just the women and kids. Do you have the room?"

Paredes sighs. "Yes."

Marcus nods and looks around the room, spots Don Faustino. "And Don Faustino."

"That was a given." Paredes looks at him sideways. "You look like hell."

"Never seen an angel looks like you," he spits back. Paredes snorts. "Been walking around in the damn rain for an hour. Got a boy coming in soon who needs a good meal, charged to the commandancia. Fernando Cruz. Got any whiskey?"

"Not for sale."

"I'm not buying."

Paredes laughs aloud. "Yeah. I'll have Juliana bring one out for you."

"Thanks, Gustavo." Murrieta comes into the room and shakes the rain out of his hair—growing long, like everyone else's. "Claudio, what the hell—"

Murrieta comes over. "The padre can take ten."

Great. He steps forward, into the chandelier light. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. I'm afraid I have bad news for you. It's required that all of you stay in town tonight. No one is allowed to leave. The road north has washed out completely; we're waiting to hear back from the scouts from the south roads but it doesn't look good. I understand this is an inconvenience for all of you. In hopes of easing this trouble, Senor Paredes has graciously opened up several of his rooms to house the women and children for the night. Gentlemen, there are ten spaces in the church; the rest of you are welcome to the empty bunks in the garrison. Your lodgings and meals are free of charge; please eat well. It's gonna be a long night."

As expected, they start squawking. He stays as calm as he can and goes first to Don Faustino. The old man is quiet and cheerful, tells him the story of the rains of 1782 and how this is nothing. Don Faustino is the only don that Marcus genuinely likes, because he isn't genuine nobility. Don Faustino worked hard from the time that he was a young boy serving the mission fathers, became filthy rich by fluke and earned the title "Don" simply because he was ancient. Don Faustino always tells Marcus stories about before. He's fond of the old man, fond of his stories, too. So he sits and listens and shares a scotch and ignores Dona Esparto's shrill cries for his attention.

When he finally gets around to her, she and her brat of a four-year-old Ana have settled down to eat a meal. He is polite, answers all of her questions and rebuffs her not-entirely-subtle advances. She's got a kid with her. Jesus. The little girl starts to cry again and he tries shadow puppets, remembers how Brady loved playing shadow puppets. Ana quiets, watches, giggles and consents to being fed by her mother.

Murrieta has taken care of the other questions and stops for a moment to tell him that the southeast road is fine but the southwest is unstable. He nods. "Thanks, Claudio. Why don't you take off, get some rest? Check in with Justo to find out when you're on watch." Murrieta doesn't need to be told twice and lopes off into the rain.

Marcus steps back into the shadows by the kitchen and swipes a piece of bread from the passing tray. He gnaws on it, relishes the heat of the soft dough and watches the room. Almost everyone is eating; the little boy Murrieta was talking to earlier—the Valdes boy, Ibrahim—is running circles around his mother's blue skirts out on the patio.

Hold up. That's not his mother. That's the infamous "T. Alvarado" herself. He hadn't seen her before; he hadn't entirely paid attention. She's indulging Ibrahim's energetic jaunts, calling him back before he gets too close to the railing, catching him when he runs into her or other stationary objects. Senora Valdes is sitting and feeding her younger boy—Enrico? Something like that. She looks frazzled and helpless. He vaguely remembers hearing something about Senor Valdes being ill, so he comes over quietly and greets her. "Is there anything you need, Senora?" he asks, sitting down in the chair beside her. She's shaking her head and answering no, but Enrico is fussing so it's very half-hearted. "Y quien es el rey?" he asks, reaching out and tickling Enrico's potbelly.

"Enrico," she sighs, tries to get her baby to look at her but fails. "The rain scares him. He won't eat."

"Enrico," he repeats, and the boy turns to look at him. "Ah ha. So you're paying attention well enough." He holds out a finger to Enrico, who grasps it after a moment of staring. "Y que fuerte! Mighty little man you have here, Senora." Smiling as big as he can, he reaches with his other hand and tickles Enrico's cheek until the boy cracks a smile. "There we go… big smile now." He tickles the small, curling foot until Enrico bursts out with a giggle. "Escuchame, Rey Enrico—obey your mama, hear me? It's been a long day for her, too. Eat up and then you can go to sleep. You hear?"

Enrico gurgles. Senora Valdes smiles at him. "Thank you, Capitan."

He just shakes his head. "If you need anything through the night, I'll be stationed here in the hotel. Just let me know, all right?" He watches the softening of her face, the way the bags under her eyes lighten for a moment, and charges on. "How is your husband?"

"He'll be all right. His sister is with him."

He nods. "All right. Just let me know." He glances over towards the patio again. "That's your boy, too, right? Ibrahim?"

"Si, Capitan."

"Great. Ibrahim!"

The boy stops running circles around Senorita Alvarado and comes prancing over. "Si, Capitan?"

"I have a mission for you, Ibrahim. Do you accept it?"

The boy thinks for a moment, tiny little face scrunching up like a rabbit, nose twitching as his mouth moves from side to side. "But I don't know what it is yet."

_Smart_ boy. "Good answer." He reaches forward and taps the boy's ear, brings his hand forward and displays the reale between his fingers. "I want you to figure out how you had a whole reale stuck behind your ear and didn't even know about it."

Ibrahim shouts and hollers and runs the two feet to his mother, makes Marcus do the trick three more times—which requires him to make the reale disappear three times—before he sits in a chair by his mother and starts to think, nose twitching like it does. Senora Valdes looks infinitely grateful, but he just smiles and heads out onto the patio.

Alvarado is standing with her arms crossed, looking out at the mess of mud that is the plaza. "Senorita," he murmurs, nodding to her. "Is everything all right?"

"Captain," she greets him, just as tersely. "Not entirely, but there's little to be done."

"I see. You had urgent business at home?"

"No, I just don't want to be here," she snaps back. He waits; she sighs. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day. I wasn't prepared to have to remain in town."

He plays dumb. "If there are supplies you require, I can have them brought to you—"

"No." She cuts him off with a wave of her hand. "No. I require nothing."

"Maybe a good conversation and a warm meal, then?"

Whoa. Is he going where he thinks he's going with this? She finally turns her head and looks straight at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Would you like to have dinner with me?"

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Well. She _really_ wasn't having a good day; she's just about thrown out every etiquette rule for receiving an invitation. "Purely selfish reasons, Senorita. If you don't, I have to sit, looking very pathetic, in a corner, eating by myself. I will also have to run across that mudfield out there to report to my commanding officer. If you do, I get to look not-pathetic, having dinner with a beautiful woman on an awful day, and I get to stay out of the mud for a bit more time." She's almost smiling, just a little bit. "I'm sure there are benefits for you, but they're not entirely relevant at this point. It would be a free meal, but you're already getting that."

She's smiling. "Captain, your honesty is… refreshing. Also somewhat fresh, but refreshing nonetheless."

He grins, because that's a yes. "Come have dinner with me." He holds out his hand. He then looks like a damn fool, because he didn't expect her to take it, and he stands there holding her hand for a minute before she gives him an expectant look and he leads her back inside.


	3. Day 3

Day 3: June 28th, 1818

**In which the hero tries a little honesty.**

She flusters him. _Flusters_. Fucking girly word, but that's what she does. Makes him unsettled, nervous, uncertain. He doesn't like it.

He doesn't like a lot of things about her with him, he's realized. He doesn't like the way that right now, when it's technically supposed to be just them, walking around, talking, being friendly-like, it's clearly not. Her mouth is with the conversation but her eyes are tracking all the people who see them together, who will later gossip about her (and him!) and who will eventually make her life hell. He also doesn't like how, because of that, she won't take his arm or hold his hand. Fuel for the fire and all of that.

They stop, for a moment, by the fountain; she wants to speak to Senora Valdes. He assents, sits down by the wash bucket and plunks Enrico on his lap, tries to pretend he doesn't see Tessa assure Senora Valdes that it's all right. Nope, no prejudices or fears like that in this idyllic little town—just a man and a baby sitting by a fountain on a hot summer day.

"Capitan! Capitan!"

He cannot find words for the gratitude he feels for that little voice. "Hey, Ibrahim!" Ibrahim races into the lip of the fountain. "Como esta, little man?"

"I can do it, I can do it!" he yelps, entirely too excited for whatever it is he can do.

"Yeah? Good for you! What can you do?" Enrico gurgles and claps his hands.

Ibrahim looks around and spies Tessa, reaches over and tugs on her skirts. "Senorita, Senorita, I have a secret for you!"

Marcus swears, briefly and forcefully under his breath, that if this little boy manages to kiss the girl before he does, he will end his own life and that of everyone within a mile radius.

Tessa flashes that bright-yet-indulgent smile. "Really? Y que es, Senor Ibrahim?"

"Ven," the boy urges, motioning her closer. Still with that indulgent smile, she crouches down in front of him, waits. Marcus holds his breath. Ibrahim holds both hands up in front of him, palms to her, then slowly reaches forward with his right, brushes her ear with his thumb and pulls his hand back quickly to show the peso in his hand. "You need to wash your ears better."

He can't help it; he bursts out laughing so hard that Enrico almost falls off his lap; Senora Valdes rescues him to her hip. The _lip_ on these goddamn people… He reaches over and hugs Ibrahim for just a brief moment, musses up his hair and laughs a little bit more. "That was _very, very_ good, little man. That was very good."

Ibrahim beams; Tessa smiles, laughing just a little bit. "Good enough to try on the Colonel?"

Hold up. "Whoa, whoa, little man. Colonel Montoya is a no-magic zone, understand?"

"No." Ibrahim crosses his arms and frowns. "Why not?"

"Because," he explains in one of those overly patient voices that used to piss him off like hell when he was a brat, "one glare from the Colonel and all the little magic sparks in the air fall dead. He's a magic killer. Don't do magic on a magic killer."

Tessa's staring at him wide-eyed and Senora Valdes is hiding her smirk behind Enrico. Ibrahim nods sagely. "I understand. No Colonel."

"Good boy." He holds up his fist, opens it to show the peso. "Now, figure out how you lost that peso so fast."

Ibrahim yelps and hollers and runs around again and Senora Valdes smiles. "Thank you, Captain."

"For?" He tickles Enrico's cheek.

"Giving my son something to do besides harass me."

He grins. "Not a problem. If he's ever too much, just send him to me; we could use a boot boy, powder monkey, assistant cook—"

"Captain!"

He grins. "Just kidding." He gives her a half bow and steps away. "Buenas tardes, Senora. Adios, Enrico." He waits for Tessa to say her own goodbye and they head off again, veering into the garrison plaza.

It's a little better here; not so many prying eyes from her half of their world. She relaxes, visibly: shoulders come down, eyes get lighter, smile stays for longer. He pauses here and there, talks to a few off-duties, their wives cooking or washing in front of the houses across from the barracks. She's good for all of it, greeting the people she already knows, waiting quietly to be introduced to those she doesn't, carrying on small talk or the standard first meeting questions easily and gracefully. He doesn't like this, doesn't like how sometimes they fit together perfectly when everyone else is around, how they both know how to be the invisible companion, like the piano part no one pays attention to when the aria's being sung. He misses music, opera, and doesn't like how being around her reminds him of the world he almost touched.

They keep walking, hit the open space next to the church and pause, simultaneously. The mud just sits there, smooth and hard after twenty-four days in the sun. "It's almost pretty," she murmurs, gesturing loosely with her right hand. "Look at the colors."

She's got a point. It's not brown mud, it's brown mud with streaks of red, pink, white mud—he thinks there's a streak of blue further off, but he can't quite tell. He turns to look at her and respond and just stops, struck by how fiercely beautiful it all is: the yellow stucco of the church walls, the burnt green agave, the shade of red her hair turns in the sunset. "Yeah," he agrees, dry throat making his voice crack.

She notices, shoots him a concerned look. "Are you all right?"

"I don't like that I told you about Brady."

He just bursts out with it, no warning from or to him. She looks like she's been slapped. "I-I'm sorry?"

"I don't like that I trust you like that. I don't like that I feel comfortable enough around you to talk about him, or about art and music and books and all that stuff."

She doesn't say anything. What could she say? He's been a jackass and hit her with things that she can't possibly respond to, that she shouldn't respond to. "I don't know what to tell you, Marcus—"

"Nothing. That's the point. There's nothing to be said because in the end, I told you these things, I do trust you, I do feel comfortable around you and I really like you and that's just it."

Aww, fuck. His goddamn motormouth just busted him again.

She's frowning, cocking her head just slightly. "Can you repeat that last bit?"

He plays dumb. Again. "That's just it."

"Before that."

"I feel comfortable around you."

"Marcus." He grins; she grins wider. "You said you really like me."

"Well, yeah. I'd probably like you more if you kissed me, but you're quite likeable."

"Marcus." But she's almost laughing, now, her smile's so big.

He can't entirely look, puts his head down, rubs his neck. "Listen. I-um-I'm not real good at this sort of thing, so just hear me out." He kicks at that nonexistent clod of dirt that always appears to help him out in these situations. "I know that we've been getting to know each other for this whole time, and that comes with rules and pressures, and I know that after this idiocy from me there are other rules and pressures. And I don't much like those pressures. Or rules, for that matter, but you know that already. I don't want to think of this as courting, 'cause that pulls in a whole bunch of words that I don't like thinking about. I guess a lot of this is what I like and don't like, and I hope that's okay. I just want to keep getting to know you, become your friend first. If that's all right." He realizes he forgot something major. "With a whole bunch of kissing, real friendly-like, all the time."

She laughs, her soft, throaty laugh that's prettier than any society giggle she's got. "I take it the kissing is the main part of the deal."

"No kissing, no deal."

She isn't perfect, not by a long shot, but there are moments, when she's lit up like this, that he thinks that maybe God was giving it a real hard try. "I see." She walks out a little way. "I don't much like all those rules and pressures either, you know. In fact, I hate them so much that I was about to tell you I was done with this, with this you and me thing, because there were too many rules and pressures and I just don't have the patience for that."

Well. Yay for honesty. "That's honest."

She looks up from where she's poking at the solidified mud with the toe of her shoe. "That's all you've given me," she counters. Which is truth. "And I know you haven't always been honest like this, and I know it's because of Brady's death." He flinches; doesn't like it being named, not out loud, not by anyone. "But that doesn't make it any less legitimate, or any less valuable." She smiles, the soft, real smile, and walks back over to him. "I think we can keep getting to know each other. I think that'll work out fine."

"With the kissing?" He sounds pathetic, but apparently his honesty pays big bucks.

She places her left hand on his chest, looks up at him. He stops breathing. She goes up on her toes and kisses his cheek. "Absolutely."

And then she's _walking away_. What the _fuck_ was that? "That wasn't the kind I was talking about!" he shouts.

She turns back with an impish smile. "I know." She keeps walking, glances back. He hasn't moved, because when he's been tricked, he gets angry, and he either moves too much or not at all when he's angry. "Are you coming?" she calls back. And winks.

He runs to catch up.


	4. Day 4

WARNING: Not a happy section.

Day 4: June 3rd, 1819

**In which the hero assimilates the villain.**

He sits on his bed because she tells him to, says nothing as she moves around his quarters (so familiarly, stabs at his heart like butterfly wings) and pulls his bandaging supplies out of the wreck of his things. "What hurts more, your head or your thigh?"

Good question. He pokes at the blossoming blood stain on his pants, winces. He pokes at the trail of blood from his temple and winces. "Dunno."

She purses her lips and nods. "Head first, then." She puts a towel into his right hand. "Hold that against the puncture, hard."

He doesn't nod, just does it, clenching both hands around his right thigh and feeling the blood seep into the thin towel. "Won't last long."

"Won't need to. You're going to the doctor."

The rage starts to bubble up; he grunts, pushes it down with both hands and all the force in his body. "No need."

"Marcus—"

"Plenty of other people he's got to tend to. Can't even be sure he's functional himself. I'm fine."

She's grabbed him by the chin and wrenched his gaze up before he fully knows what she's doing. "You have blood pouring out of you from two separate places and bruises all over. You are not fine."

"Then shut up and patch me up!"

That flash in her eyes—and how did it take him so many months to recognize it?—and she closes her mouth. It's silent and awkward for a few minutes, but she tries again like he knew she would. "That was very brave, what you did."

"Didn't do shit."

"Ibrahim would disagree."

"Just gave him a push out the door."

"You saved his life."

"Didn't do shit."

She's wiping the blood from his face tenderly, lovingly. "It was heroic."

The rage comes up again, higher, stinging in his throat. He grimace-grins, tamps it down. "You know what I think of heroes." It almost comes out: _you know what I think of you_. He tamps it down.

"Stupid fools who just manage to get a whole bunch of other people killed," she repeats, almost smiling. Her towel moves across his mouth. "Nosebleed," she whispers. "Marcus, you really do need to see the doctor—"

It's up and out. He shoves her aside—too hard, into the wall—and vomits twice in quick succession at his bedside. It's draining and rejuvenating; all that rage is in his veins now, pumping and chanting and pulling and pushing. He takes the towel from his thigh, wipes his mouth with it, tastes alkaline with his acid and loves it.

She comes forward, touches his shoulder, and he shoves her back again, harder, angrier. "Marcus, what the—"

"Don't you fucking _touch me_._"_

He snarls. He's pulled upright by this new strength in his blood. He takes a belt and ties it tight around his upper thigh, tight 'til it hurts, 'til it feels good. When he turns around she's standing in shock by his desk; such a good little warrior. On the desk there are makeshift weapons—letter opener, penknife, ink. Behind her are racks and racks of unloaded but solid stocked rifles. He can see why she always wins.

"Marcus, please just sit down, you're too injured to be like this." She's speaking very slowly, very steadily. Her eyes are wide and her lips stay apart when she's not speaking, making sure she gets enough air. He likes this; this type of power is new. "Please, querido, just sit down and I'll get the doctor—"

"And he will come running for you, won't he?" he hisses, stepping forwards through the mess, rolling up his bloodied sleeves. There are small cuts all over his forearms; she winces when she sees them but doesn't step forward, doesn't leave the safety of the weapons. "Even if it's me he has to treat, you just ask him and he'll come running."

She closes her eyes; she thinks she knows what this is about. "Marcus. I thought—no, we are. We've been over this. There is nothing between Dr. Helm and me—"

He rushes her, slams her against the wall and loves the cry of pain from between those parted lips. He holds her there, bloody right thumb stroking her neck, bloody left hand pinning her right above her head. "You lying whore."

There, that flash in her eyes again, the anger. How was he so blind? "You bastard, get off of me."

He presses at the base of her neck with his fingers, tilts her chin up with his thumb. "There's nothing between Helm and Tessa Alvarado, I'll give you that." He speaks softly, right into her ear, her mouth, her skin, feels her pulse beating hard hard hard into his fingers. "But you're asking me to believe that he and the Queen of Swords are just friends. That you go _running_ to _him_ every night you're out because you're _just a friend_!"

Her eyes—a new flash, this time, darker and softer. "You're out of your mind," she whispers. Whispers because it's hard for her to lie when the other person knows.

He just smiles, glances up to her right hand which is clutching the penknife. "You gonna use that on me, sweetheart? Finally get me out of the way?"

She searches his eyes, his face, but even he doesn't know what the hell to make of this rage which is both berserk and calm, switching moment to moment. Her grip loosens; the knife handle hits his wrist and deflects to the floor. "No," she whispers. Whispers because she's crying.

The rage won't let him feel for the tears. "I wouldn't care, you know. If you'd told me, trusted me like that. Or maybe if it'd happened like this, with me just figuring it out. I think I'd be okay." Tears rolling down her cheeks now, but he doesn't feel that tug, that ache under his ribs. "But you—and him—"

She shakes her head. "There's nothing—"

"Don't keep lying. Don't."

She keeps shaking her head, keeps whispering, "Nothing."

The rage flips upside down. "I saw you, you fucking whore!"

Her left comes up and cracks him right on the cut to his temple. Her right follows up as soon as it's free, a flat-palmed strike to the front of his shoulder that sends him crashing on his back. "Don't you ever—"

"Whore!" he screams out, and kicks her legs out from under her. "I saw it! I saw him touch you, saw him kiss you, you fucking slut!"

She backhands him when he tries to stay above her. Her left is as good as her right—he should know that by now—and it stings, everywhere she's hit him and everywhere he's landed. "Don't call me that," she spits at him, moves to get up but he tackles her down.

The move doesn't work; she ends up on top. "Slut," he hisses. "Whore."

She's all-out bawling, backhands him halfheartedly. "He kissed me. I didn't want him to. I left. That was it."

"Liar."

She slaps him again, chokes on sobs. "I wanted to tell you. For so long."

"Shut up."

"I didn't want you to know like this. I didn't want this to happen."

He throws her off of him, rolls onto his stomach and vomits again. She curls up against the side of his desk, watches him for a long time. He pillows his head on his forearms, breathes from under his bicep, ignores the black circles flashing in and out of every image. "Trust in you. You told me to trust in you."

She sobs again. The black circles come faster.


	5. Day 5

Day 5: June 10th, 1819

**In which the hero gets the third degree about the girl.**

He wakes slowly, leisurely, in a way he hasn't in a long time. The room is dim, gray, but he feels that it's late; the sun is up and the entire place is probably bustling already. He smiles, leisurely, wiggles the fingers of his right hand, drags them along the dark wood frame of the bed. His left swipes, aimlessly, twice, over the white linen sheets that feel so good under his battered body.

He definitely likes this room better.

Slowly, exaggerating the movement to stretch every muscle he can, he rolls onto his back and lets his head fall to the right, lets his eyes take in everything. She's sprawled face down on the far edge of the bed, one arm dangling off the edge, sheet tangled between her legs, draped behind her back. Her back rises and falls slowly, the fading purple of the bruise across her shoulder blades paling in the gray light, the deepening red of the new bruises along her sides, all down her spine, shimmering in the gray light.

He feels safer saying the l word now, but it's still hard to get it past his tongue, so he sticks with thinking it and carefully, quietly, slides across her too-big bed to run a hand up and down her spine, to softly and easily kiss her neck, her ear, her jaw. In her sleep she smiles, in her half-waking she murmurs.

It's when he tries to mold his body around hers that she growls, pushes him off and kicks at him, for good measure. "Too hot. Go away."

He laughs, which he knows irks her more, and kisses behind her ear, wipes at the sweat beading beneath her breasts. "I know. I'm sorry."

She murmurs again, the low, happy one, and threads her fingers over his. "Going?"

"Gotta," he mumbles, kissing her jaw. "I'm probably late."

She hmphs and snuggles back into her pillow. "Dinner."

He smiles, wants to do so much in the next thirty seconds but knows it's impossible. "I'll be here."

"Bye."

He smiles bigger, kisses the corner of her mouth and slides out of bed. His clothes are in a neatly crumpled heap at the foot of his side of the bed; it's too damn hot to put any of them on. He forces himself into his shirt, pants and suspenders but can't stomach the jacket, thinks he'll die of heatstroke if he even puts an arm in. His boots are too loud to put on just yet, so he wanders out of her bedroom barefoot, relishes the feel of smooth wood underfoot. It's been years and years and years since he's enjoyed walking indoors without shoes. He's missed it.

His stomach snarls quietly at him and he does an about face, pads to the kitchen to maybe grab some fruit, some bread, something to shut his stomach up. He remembers hearing something about ham last night—that'd be nice. He likes ham, when it's done well.

"Capitan."

Fuck.

He's just entered the kitchen; the voice comes from his right. He looks up, sees Marta with a concentrated frown and a knife in hand. "Uh—morning, Marta."

She glances up; the frown lightens to a smirk before she returns to slicing the tomato under her left hand. "It's two in the afternoon, Captain."

_Fuck_. "Fuck fuck fuck!"

"I sent Daniel in to town early this morning," she continues, still smirking, rotating the tomato so she can dice it. "He happened to stop by Colonel Montoya's office and inform him that you became unwell while visiting here last night and that I specifically forbade you from traveling."

He, momentarily, wonders if he fell for the wrong superwoman. "I—uh—I don't know what to say. Thank you."

Marta hmphs, nods to the table. "There's a plate heating on the stove. The lemonade is fresh."

He mumbles another thank you, grabs the plate and a glass of lemonade, plunks down at the table. The omelette is spicy and thick, with big ham bits all over. It is possibly the best breakfast he's had in four years. He chews as much as he can, doesn't know what to say to this woman who can and by all rights should kill him with that knife she wields so well. He has a sudden flash of insight into the origins of Tessa's skills.

"Did you sleep well?"

He chokes. She's smirking more than ever, has moved on to slicing celery. "Very well, thanks for asking." He desperately stuffs his face, realizes he has to be polite. "And you?"

"There was a bit of a disturbance early on, but once it quieted down I managed to get some sleep."

He chokes again. "I-uh-I'm sorry to hear that. I hope that disturbance… doesn't bother you again." Because he wants that disturbance as often as he can get it, but he can't say that to _Marta_.

"Mmm. It just needs to be better contained."

She is evil, evil, evil. He polishes off the omelette, drains the lemonade and is surprised when Marta stops her work to switch out the empty plate for a one of bread and fruit. "Thank you." It occurs to him, halfway through the first hunk of bread, that she could be poisoning him. "Are you poisoning me?"

She laughs. It's pretty, undelicate. Very much like Tessa's real laugh. "No. I wouldn't dare."

"Why not?"

She stops chopping, gives him a long look. "How do you think she'd react?" He ducks his head, smiles. Marta resumes her work. "You are fully aware that her uncle will be returning to California in a week."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And that he will have many, many questions for you."

He gulps. "Yes, ma'am."

"Do you have answers ready?"

She's chopping steadily, not looking at him. He measures his breath carefully. "Yes, ma'am."

"And if he happens to see her shoulder blades, what answers will you have for him?"

He winces. "Honest ones."

"Perhaps you should test them on me, first."

He waits for her to look up when he's silent. "I made a very big mistake. It won't happen again."

"That much, I know. Why did it happen in the first place?"

He wets his lips, looks away. "Because I was angry, and I knew that I'd done much worse to her before."

"And that made it okay?"

"For Christ's sake, Marta, I've _shot _her! She has broken my bones entirely too many times! This is and has always been a very violent relationship!" Her knife is down, she's wiping her hands on her apron and even he doesn't buy it. "It isn't okay, it never has been okay, and it never will be okay. And I will never hurt her willingly. But I will hurt her again, physically, because of who she is and because of who I am. I can't not fight her."

It's honesty and realism that he can see she didn't expect. "I was hoping to hear something else."

"It would be a lie."

"Do you think you love her?"

"I think this is as close as I've ever been. I don't know whether it's the real deal."

"Do you think she loves you?"

"I sure as hell hope so."

"What do you want from her?"

"Kisses. Lots of."

"What will you give her?"

"Every bone in my body, if she asks."

"Marriage?"

"If she could stomach it."

And that gets Marta smiling. "You know her well." Heh. Yep. And for some reason he feels his face getting hot. Marta notices. "You're disgusting."

He just smiles, walks to the door and looks out. The horizon is still smoking; it was a foolish hope, to think that maybe it would spontaneously stop after a week. He looks out, watches orange lick at the bleached sky and tries it. "I love her." It's weak, shaky, hesitant. "I love her," and now it's strong, firm, still hesitant, but that's to be expected.

Marta is looking at him like he's crazy. "If you're trying to convince yourself—"

"No," he interrupts, quickly. "I—It's hard for me to say the word. I have to practice." It's strange, how easily that admission comes now that he's spoken it once. "I have to practice."

Marta considers him carefully for a long, long minute, searching his face just like Tessa does. Then she smiles, just with the corners of her mouth. "Practice away."

She heads back towards the table and he leans against the lower half of the door, breathes in the spicy, smoky air. It's too dry, hurts his lungs, but he stays breathing deeply by the door. He says the l sentence fifteen times in a row, thinks of what it would be like to wake like this every day and maybe start the day with the l word. "I'd like that," he whispers to the fire at the edge of the world.


	6. Day 6

Day 6: June 22nd, 1819

**In which the hero loses.**

It is hot as _hell_. He remembers the last time it was this hot; bad time in his life. He pushes it out of his mind, drops it on the ground with his shirt and goes back to picking up pieces of wreckage. Justo and Claudio are helping; if they work fast enough and hard enough, they can have the entire fountain cleared by sundown. Three other guys are working with the doctor, getting his office cleared out and set up so he can start treating people who weren't smart enough to get inside.

He checks himself. People who weren't _able_ to get inside. Able.

He's about to chuck another chunk of wood onto the "burn" pile when he sees a flash of royal blue. He smiles, straightens up and looks.

She's got her hands on her hips and one big, wide smile. "Hey."

God, he's a lucky man. "Hey yourself." He drops off the lip of the fountain and gently tosses the wood onto the pile, ambles over to her and drops a quick kiss on her lips. "Didn't expect to see you today."

She quirks an eyebrow in that way she's got, and he sees the shade of dimple that always springs up before she smirks. "I can go home, if you want."

He gives her the look that, he hopes, tells her what he thinks of that plan. "What've you been up to?"

She reaches up and starts messing with his hair. He tries to swat her hand away, but when she pulls some thatch out and shows it to him, he's a little bit grateful. A lotta bit. "Visited with Carolina. Ibrahim and Francisco are almost done getting everything back to normal. The cyclone didn't get close enough to do real damage, not like here." She squints her eyes in the sunlight, looks around the plaza. "This place is a mess."

He also takes a look around, lets his gaze settle on the entrance to the courtyard, which is completely blocked by the felled trellis. "It's… yeah. It's a mess." He looks back at her, reaches out and cups her cheek. "Give me some good news. How's Enrico?"

She lights up, just like he knew she would. That little boy is the highlight of their lives right now. "Oh, Marcus, he's getting so big, and he babbles like there's no tomorrow. He's always asking 'Ques?' and you should see how he follows Ibrahim around…" she trails off, gives him a shy smile. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He blinks, realizes he was gawking. "Sor-" he starts, then pauses, considers her for a long moment. She shifts uncomfortably. "You want one?"

She frowns, not understanding. "One what?"

"A kid."

The sides of her mouth twitch, like she's holding back a smile. "Planning on conjuring one up for me?"

He reaches out, pulls her against him. "I can think of a couple ways to conjure, yeah," he murmurs, kisses her a little too hard for the plaza. She pulls away, swats his arm, blushes but stays close. "But… seriously. You ever think of kids?"

She gives him that quiet look that she gives him some mornings, the one he can't read but still loves. "Yeah."

He does his best to not kick at the ground. "Me too."

She smiles again, her small smile that's just for him. He wants to kiss her senseless but reminds himself that he's already half naked and they're in public. "Marcus? What are you getting at?"

He takes a deep breath. She smells like almonds and cinnamon and the desert. "I'm getting at… at us, babe. At you and me… and maybe a couple of kids. Beautiful baby girl, or a boy." She's beaming like she's just seen the sun for the first time in years. "A real us, _linda_."

She kisses him, softly. "Are you talking marriage, Captain Grisham?"

He grins, shrugs a little, puts on the drawl and the cocky smirk. "I mean, if you're talking marriage, so am I, but—"

She's kissing him again. He remembers not so long ago when she wouldn't even hold his hand and pulls her as close as she can be. "Yeah, Marcus. I'm talking marriage," she whispers, kisses him one more time.

And here he was thinking those moments when he just likes to look at her, when he thinks he could just look at her for hours, were products of sex. "If you'll have me."

She presses her lips together in that way she has when she's so happy she wants to squeal but knows it's completely inappropriate. He loves tickling the squeal out of her but this isn't the place. He should've done this better, with a ring and flowers and all. Not sweaty with hay in his hair and no shirt on in the middle of weeks of wreckage. "Stop," she admonishes. "This is how I wanted it."

Too smart, his girl. Too smart. "Guess we gotta tell your uncle."

Her smile fades and her arms drop from around his neck. She takes a step back. He doesn't like this abrupt distancing, knows it means something real bad, like dying or leaving. "Maybe we should wait on that."

He's got to be strong, be a real man right now. A real man. "What's going on, Tess?"

She swallows, looks away, and when she looks back she's got tears in her eyes. It takes all of him to not scoop her up and kiss her soft and hug her tight and swear he'll make it right. "He… I told him about us and he told me I was dishonoring my family by being with you."

Well. He's heard worse. "I've heard worse. What's so bad about that? We knew he didn't like me—"

"Marcus."

It's the tone she had when he came knocking on her door, begging her forgiveness. Tight and angry and so in love. "Tell me."

"I need you to tell me the absolute truth right now."

He's almost hurt, but knows what all she's forgiven to be with him and understands the request. "Always."

"Who killed my father?"


	7. Day 7

Day 7: June 15th, 1820

**In which the hero ships off to war.**

He holds the scotch on his tongue, eyes almost watering from the sharp attack. It's almost too much when he finally swallows it, gritting his teeth and sucking in air as it goes down. Real strong, real peatey, and for some reason makes him think of the ocean. He hasn't lingered on the beach for a year—can't bear to do it alone.

He needs more scotch.

Montoya is ready to announce the deal tonight, and General Montes is here to assist and "officiate." He likes Montes, likes his old guard style with his new guard ideas of respect. He also likes Montes's scotch.

"Ah, Capitan." It's Montes. He quaffs the rest of his dram and turns to the general.

"Sir."

"At ease. We're having a party, Grisham. You can relax."

He tries to smile but it doesn't get past his lower lip. "I'll try, sir."

Montes, with his small eyes and thick white eyebrows, is still a sharpshooter at heart. "You're going to be a hero, Grisham. I'll see to that."

"Heroes tend to die, sir."

The general laughs—a big, belly jiggling laugh that reminds Marcus of Saint Nick. Christ, he misses the States sometimes. "You'll be the kind that lives, Captain. You've got that survival instinct, I can see that. And a good heart."

His heart is worth shit. "You've got the wrong man, General."

Montes pours himself a glass, sits down across the table. "Marcus—if I may be so bold—do you know how I came to be a general?"

"Killed a lot of bad guys."

The bushy white mustache moves up and down in a guffaw. "That's part of it. But I pay attention to the men I work with. The men I fight with. I keep track of who's in the fight and who's wrapped up with a war in here," and he points to his temple. "You've got the look and walk of a man who lost that war and is aching for this fight."

He looks up at that. "My head is always in the fight, sir."

"I don't doubt that. But there's a difference between a soldier and a berserker. I want the soldier."

He grimaces. "Yes, sir."

Montes holds his gaze for a little while longer, then beams at him again. Too chipper for a general, this man. He can see why Montoya never made it. "Enjoy the party, Captain. It'll be the last one for a while."

He halfheartedly raises his empty glass to the departing soldier, then lets his eyes follow it back down to the table. Courtyard opens in… two minutes, and he'll have to face up to what's he done and what he's about to do.

He needs more scotch.

It takes him a long time to actually reach across the table for the bottle, because she's walked in. She's wearing blue—it's new, he thinks, pale blue and matte, with shining threads speckled through. Silk, he figures, hating that he remembers all the little things she taught him. Her hair is up and her lips are bright but her eyes are as they have been since: cold, hollow, bloodshot.

She is alone. She is always alone. He still hasn't figured out how he feels about that. She greets Montoya and gets introduced to Montes. He recognizes the way her lips part in shock; she knows exactly who Montes is. He waits for her next move.

She looks straight at him, lips still open, eyes suddenly frantic. Montes repeats her name and she drags her eyes back to the general, smiles as prettily as she can and carries on. So strong, his girl. Too strong, maybe.

The crowd trickles in. The Hidalgos, the Aldamas, the Espartos. Don Faustino's two sons. He misses the old man, whispers an ancient prayer for his soul. Montoya claps for music, the new recruits circle with wine trays and the serving platters come out. The General makes his rounds. He stays sitting in the alcove, sheltered by the stairs. He can't help but watch her—how she and Vera briefly touch hands, a quick squeeze of solidarity. How she sidesteps Faustino's elder son, smiles sweetly but maternally at the younger. How she barely responds to Helm's inquiries.

"_Admit it. You crushed on the doc."_

"_Only because you were too busy sexing yourself stupid to be attractive."_

She'd kissed back, that time—when he saw—that time. He saw that. There was desire there, but she'd chosen, even if he hadn't seen it. She'd chosen and his girl always sticks to her decisions.

He pours another scotch, but doesn't get to drink it because Montoya has called for silence, for a toast. He knows the reason; time to announce. He stands, leaves the glass and circles behind the stairs to the back of the podium, sets his feet just under shoulder width apart and his hands, fist in palm, over his crotch, keeps his head up and his eyes on the trellis. Only one rose so far. It's been a cold spring. Not as bad as four years ago, but still cold. Has people worried, has Francisco rationing the last of the stores already.

He can't think of Francisco anymore, can't even look at Ibrahim. And hell if Enrico doesn't smile at him like nothing's wrong.

"My dear friends," Montoya starts. Marcus stifles a groan and, out of the corner of his eye, catches three others doing the same. "Tonight, I have called you here to celebrate a series of extraordinary events. As you all know, General Guerrero has made rapid and incredible advances in the south—advances so miraculous that our King has reconsidered his former stance on events and reinstated the Cadiz Constitution!" He pauses for the appropriate applause, and Marcus closes his eyes so as not to roll them. "Tonight, my friends, we have a guest of honor like none other before. He fought with Guerrero at Juajilla and has been instrumental in the success of the liberal movement in California. Tonight, it is my honor to introduce an illustrious hero of our land—General Isidoro Montes de Oca."

Montes steps forward to polite applause. He waits patiently and then starts. Marcus loves him even more as soon as he opens his mouth. "We're at war, ladies and gentlemen. And until now, California has been blissfully isolated from it. This… is no more." Montoya looks bewildered at the turn Montes has taken. This was supposed to be light, cheerful, patriotic. Montes is making it true and Marcus bets that he'll hear a vow to kill Montes before the night is out.

"I am making a tour of all the presidios in California. I understand that there are problems of piracy, and that the mission fathers require substantial forces to keep the Indio population in line. But… if we are to win, if we are to secure our independence as our sister nations have, we need all the trained soldiers we can get. Trained soldiers, not the rabble rousers our movement began with. So we have instituted a new policy for California. Two trained soldiers will stay behind in each presidio—the current commander and a promising corporal. They will be responsible for training the Indio inhabitants of each pueblo as soldiers. All other men of arms will be dispatched to the front in Zacatecas."

There is stunned silence. His eyes slip from the single rose to the single woman. She's staring straight at him and Christ, those look like tears in her eyes. Montes clears his throat. "Coronel Luis Montoya and Corporal Fernando Cruz will stay in Santa Helena. All other soldiers will depart for the south in two days' time, led by Captain Marcus Grisham." He feels all the eyes on him, but just stays looking at her, trying to say everything he can while she's still looking. "To your success, Captain. Go with God."

There are hoarse echoes of the General's haphazard toast, but he puts them out of his mind, just waits until Montoya has stepped down from the dais, then moves in a straight line to her. She doesn't move, just looks at him, for a long, long minute.

"You're going to war."

Her voice is shaking. She's swallowing too often. "Yes," he whispers.

She breaks the stare, looks down at the floor, presses her lips together and closes her eyes. Her lids are smudged with cinnamon powder. He waits, watches, almost smiles when she moistens her lips. "You'll come back."

He says nothing.

She closes her eyes again, and when she opens them one tear drops from her left lower lid. "You'll come back to me."

He breathes. She smells like cinnamon and desert. "Yes."


End file.
